


Starstruck

by TooSel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brief Mention of Violence, Death from Old Age, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Starjohn, Starjohn is a fluffy ball of happiness and love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-11 17:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooSel/pseuds/TooSel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had never expected his wish to come true. But there he was, right in front of him: his new friend and companion John - the boy that fell from the sky right into Sherlock's backyard (and his heart).</p><p>A story about Sherlock and Starjohn, told in five chapters, covering the beginning, their life and the end. Or is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in English. Sorry for any mistakes! If you find something that's wrong, let me know. Any feedback is greatly appreciated!
> 
> Very special thanks and credit to:  
> chosenofashurha on tumblr - a lot of your headcanons from that masterpost about Starjohn made it into this. Thanks!  
> shezziarty on tumblr - the image of Starjohn dancing around to Sherlock playing the violin and asking him to never stop was inspired by your headcanon, thank you so much for letting me use it! Also, thanks for being excited about this when it hadn't even been written yet.  
> kaiteekay on tumblr - the ending to this fic was inspired by your headcanon, I couldn't have thought of a better one so thank you very much.
> 
> Starjohn was created by shootbadcabbies on tumblr, so big thanks to you too!

It was dark in Sherlock's room. He was in bed, tucked in his blanket and trying very hard to fall asleep.

After what felt like hours of lying still he sighed wearily, deciding that it was futile. His mind just wouldn't stop spinning. It was like he could feel himself getting more and more awake by the minute.

He was bored, really really bored. And alone. Lonely, even. From the distance, he could hear his brother Mycroft's soft snores. He tried not to listen to them, but it was the only sound in the quiet house. In the darkness of his room, it seemed even louder. He frowned. It made trying not to think about his brother impossible.

They used to always play together, he remembered. Sherlock would dress up as a pirate and jump on Mycroft from behind, and his brother would put on a hat and together they'd go looking for a hidden treasure in their backyard. Or Mycroft would tiptoe into his room, just after his father had tucked him into bed, and read him a story. Sherlock would always guess the ending and Mycroft would look pleased whenever he got it right, or explain to him what he'd gotten wrong. Sometimes, when Sherlock had been especially smart, he'd get a ruffle through his messy curls before his brother left him to sleep.

But since this year, things had changed. Mycroft had started going to a new school and now he didn't have time to be a pirate anymore. He barely came out of his room when he was at home. Whenever Sherlock asked him to come play these days, he would get a headshake from his brother alongside a firm 'no'.

Sherlock tried not to be sad; he understood that Mycroft had to take his studies seriously, after all. He had to study a lot so he could become even smarter than he already was. But playing pirate on his own wasn't much fun and looking for a treasure when he knew his brother hadn't hidden one was just dull and pointless.

Mycroft didn't visit him before he fell asleep anymore either. Every night, before his father led him to his bedroom, Sherlock would turn to look at the closed door at the other end of the hall and see the light shining through the gap. But it never opened anymore, and he was left going to bed with a heavy heart.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes and sighed. He didn't want to think about his brother anymore. Or about feeling alone. He threw his duvet back impatiently and took his cuddly toy. Getting up, he grabbed his dressing gown from the chair next to his nightstand and slipped into it.

It was too dark in this room; he couldn't do anything if he couldn't see. Afraid that his parents would wake and see the light shining through the door, he didn't dare to switch the lamp on. Instead, he tiptoed to his window and drew back the curtains.

Sherlock stood silently and raised his eyes to the sky. The moon bathed him in its silvery light. The desperate desire to have someone there with him rolled over Sherlock as he stood and watched the night.

He didn't have any friends. He didn't like the other kids very much, and they didn't like him either, that much was sure. They told him often enough. Sherlock didn't understand them; how could they not get the things he did? How could they play such dull games and have fun doing it? Why were they mad when he pointed out things about them? He had long given up trying to talk to them. He'd always had Mycroft, after all.

But now Mycroft had more important things to do, and Sherlock was very much on his own.

He furrowed his brow and pressed his cuddly toy to his chest. Still looking up at the sky, he thought of a story he'd read some time ago. It said that if you watched the sky and saw a shooting star, you had to make a wish really fast and then it'd come true.

He was a bit suspicious - honestly, if it worked, then why didn't everyone do it? Why didn't Mycroft know about it? But then he thought about having to be with the other children and his heart beat fast in his chest with sorrow, and he decided that he could at least give it a try. He wouldn't wait for a shooting star, he thought to himself, he'd just close his eyes and wish very hard and maybe it would still work.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, closed his eyes and mumbled tensely, "Please send me a friend. Please, please, please."

He kept his eyes shut, wondering how long he should remain that way, but after a few seconds of silence he grew bored and shifted uncertainly. He blinked and looked at the sky, but nothing happened. Sherlock let his arms sink, feeling let down and stupid for having believed it could work.

"Please...?" he tried one last time, glancing up, ready to turn his back to the window and find a book to distract him from the bitter disappointment he felt. He was about to turn when suddenly a shot of golden light appeared outside, flashed across the sky and... landed just under his window.

Sherlock gasped. "What-" he whispered. "It landed in our backyard!"

His cuddly toy fell to the floor as he supported himself on the window ledge to get a better look. Somewhere in the back of the yard, he saw a soft gleaming coming through the leaves of a bush.

Sherlock squinted to make out more, but he couldn't see anything from where he was standing. He only hesitated for a second, thinking that his parents may wake up, but quickly decided that he just _had_  to see what had fallen down from up there.

He slipped out of his dressing gown and picked up his toy, excitement rushing through his body. He pulled a pocket lamp out of his cupboard and opened the door carefully. On tiptoe he sneaked out of his room and down the hall. He held his breath when he passed his brother's bedroom, but the snores didn't even falter.

Sherlock put on his shoes and a jacket and left the house without making as much as a noise.

The light of the pocket lamp didn't reach far enough for him to see what had landed in the yard. He took a shaky breath and walked towards the bush the shining light came from. He heard his own heartbeat rustling in his ears and held his toy firmly in his arms as he approached the light. He stopped in front of the bush, his pocket lamp defensively in front of him.

At first, he couldn't make out what he was looking at.

"What is that?" Sherlock mumbled breathlessly, staring at the source of light. Then his eyes widened.

Right in front of him, surrounded by – no, eradiating - golden light, was a little boy. He looked about his age and had no clothes on. His eyes were closed. Golden glitterdust was scattered all around the place where he had landed.

Sherlock stared at him in disbelief, lost for words. How was this possible? He'd wished for a friend and now there was an actual boy in his backyard! A real, breathing boy. With golden strands in his fair hair and no clothes. While he was looking at the boy's body, he realised that he must be cold. Carefully, so he wouldn't scare him, Sherlock bent his knees and poked his bare arm.

When the boy's eyelids fluttered open, Sherlock drew in a sharp breath. The boy looked him right in the eye, a curious expression on his soft face. After a brief moment he smiled, and Sherlock watched as even more glowing particles radiated from his skin. Neither of them said a word. After letting the other boy watch him, he finally opened his mouth and breathed out curiously, "Who are you?"

The child sat up and chuckled. He scratched his head with his small hand and answered lightheartedly, "I don't know." Sherlock watched in awe as the movement sent more glowing dust into the air. "How did I come here?" he wanted to know. Sherlock pointed at the sky.

"You fell down from there," he explained.

"Really? Wow!" The boy watched the sky in awe, the starlight reflecting in his bright eyes.

"Don't you remember?" Sherlock demanded to know.

"No... but I remember you!"

Sherlock opened his mouth in surprise. "But we've never met," he pointed out.

The boy narrowed his eyes and seemed to think about that. More of the golden light leaked from his skin. "I remember your voice," he finally said. He smiled, supporting himself on his knees as he put a hand on Sherlock's arm. They both watched golden dust emerge from the touch. "You asked for a friend... I remember that! You asked for a friend and that's why I'm here."

He smiled widely and waited for Sherlock to reply, who still looked at the hand on his arm. He finally drew his eyes back to the kid and asked hopefully, "You're here to be my friend? Just for me?"

A firm nod confirmed his questions. Sherlock realised that his jaw had dropped and closed it quickly. Suddenly he remembered what he'd wanted to ask at the very beginning. "Are you cold?"

The boy shook his head.

"Are you hurt?" Sherlock asked next, suddenly worried that his friend might have broken something when he'd fallen... all the way down from the sky. But he only shook his head again, waiting for Sherlock to say something else with a wide smile. He grinned back, relieved that he was alright, and then sat back to think.

"What is it?" the child wanted to know.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. After a moment, he asked back, "So you don't know who you are? Don't you have a name?"

The boy shook his head. 

"But you need one."

"Really?" The boy narrowed his eyes. "What is _your_ name?"

"Sherlock."

His face lit up. "Sherlock!" he tried out and smiled at the sound. "That is a beautiful name. I think I want one too. What name can I have?"

They both sat in silence. "Maybe you can have a simpler name," Sherlock mused. "Mine is too complicated, people can never get it right."

The boy nodded eagerly, and Sherlock realised that he wanted him to pick a name now.

He looked at the child in front of him and reflected on the names he'd heard in his life. He didn't want the name of a person he knew. He thought about all the books he'd read with Mycroft, and suddenly he remembered one from a particulary interesting story.

"What do you think about John?" he asked and watched his friend's face light up even more.

"John is pretty! I like John." He giggled. "Am I called John now?"

Sherlock had a feeling that he'd be excited about any name, but when he looked at the boy – at John –, the name just seemed to fit.

"Yes, you are," he decided, smiling as golden sparks eradiated from John's body. "What _is_ that?" he wanted to know, pointing at the dust surrounding him. John looked down, only then seeming to realise that he was the source of the mess.

"It's stardust," he answered thoughtfully, rubbing his small hands together. Both of them made a quiet _oh_ sound as a cloud of dust emerged. When he opened his palms, a faint light seemed to glow from his skin. John grinned when he saw Sherlock's wide eyes.

"Does that mean that you're a star?"

John tilted his head, looked up at the sky and then back at him.

"I was a star," he tried to explain. "But you see, I'm a boy now! Well, not a human boy like you. But still a boy. But I can also still do this..." He rubbed his hands together again, creating rays of starlight in his palms once more. Sherlock wanted to touch it, but he didn't dare to do so. "Maybe I'm a starboy now. I'm your starfriend! It's like a normal friend, just that I came from the sky. And I'm here just for you."

He laughed again and he sounded so happy about that fact that Sherlock could feel something as warm and golden as the light on John's skin grow inside him.

John shuffled around until he kneeled in front of Sherlock, then he raised his hands to his face, his skin still glowing. Sherlock remained still and only made a slight noise of surprise as the small fingers touched his cheeks. He could feel the light on his skin - it was like a warm breeze on his face, a soft brush and prickly sensation all the same, and beneath all that, the simple warmth of John's touch. 

He wasn't aware that he'd gazed at John in awe until he removed his hands and Sherlock leaned into where they'd been. "Come with me," he demanded as he found his voice again, grabbing John's arm and getting up. John let himself be pulled from the ground.

"That's a big house," he noted. "Do you live there all alone?" The thought seemed to make him sad.

"No, my parents live there too, but they are always working. And my brother Mycroft, but I barely see him anymore. He just studies all the time and has no time to play. He doesn't even come to say goodnight anymore." He felt John put his small hand in his own and press firmly.

"Now you have me," he declared. "So I'm going to live with you now?"

"Yes, you are," Sherlock nodded decidedly. "I'm not letting you go elsewhere. You're my friend, John! I've never had a friend before. Mycroft and my parents don't need to know. You can just live with me now."

They both started to giggle and Sherlock felt dizzy by the happiness he felt at the sound. They walked to the house side by side. When Sherlock looked back he realised that John, unsurprisingly, left glittery footprints when he walked. He would have to make them disappear until his parents came out here again, but right now he was so giddy that he couldn't have cared less.

Sherlock couldn't remember ever having felt this _happy_. His hand laid warm and safe in John's and when his thumb rubbed the glowing skin, an increased amount of dust emitted.

That was interesting, he thought to himself. John emitted stardust and light at all times, but it seemed like he reacted to Sherlock by leaking even more. He really had to investigate this further. Luckily, he realised, and the thought put a big grin on his face, he had a whole lot of time to do that.

Together, the boys sneaked down the hall, leaving a pair of glittery footprints and a glowing trail of stardust behind. Sherlock knew he would have to think of some sort of explanation eventually.

They entered Sherlock's bedroom and John hovered around the room, taking in all the things around him. Sherlock realised with a start that he was actually hovering. He hadn't done that before, but he was definitely floating now. John didn't seem to be aware of his feet not touching the ground. He looked around the room, which was still lit by the moonlight, and then returned his gaze to Sherlock as he walked past him and crawled into bed.

"You can come and sleep in here with me," he said through a yawn. "There's enough room for both of us."

He opened his blanket as an invitation and John followed immediately, snuggling close to him. Sherlock felt himself getting sleepier by the second.

"Do you even sleep?" he mumbled into his pillow as the question crossed his mind, watching John put his small hand under his cheek and look at him with those big, bright eyes.

"I think I do," he answered and blinked a few times. "I feel tired, so I think I can sleep. If I can't, I'll just lay here with you. That's fine too, you know."

Sherlock nodded, already drifting off to sleep.  
  
He didn't have any bad dreams that night. The feeling of warmth and safety followed him into his sleep, and when he awoke in the morning, finding John sound asleep and emitting a soft glow, he knew that he was never going to leave him now.


	2. Part I - Childhood

With John entering his life, Sherlock found himself suddenly enjoying his time much more than he'd ever thought possible.

It was quite a piece of work, keeping John's presence in his room and therefore another person living in the house a secret. The golden dust and glitter everywhere wasn't too helpful either. But he didn't regret a single day, never complained once about having to clean yet again, didn't mind lying to his parents about 'the experiment with all the glitter'. He had John now, and everything was so much better.

The first few days Sherlock had kept awakening with a startling breath, reaching out next to him and heaving a relieved sigh when he'd found John's body curled up next to his. He hadn't trusted himself to not have dreamed everything up. It was only after a full week that he finally stopped thinking he'd imagined it all.  
  
John would always sleep a bit longer than Sherlock in the mornings. He suspected that was because he stayed up longer at night to see if Sherlock was sleeping well, just as Sherlock did in the mornings.

He'd found out that during the day, when John experienced things, he reacted unconsciously by emitting larger amounts of stardust and glowing light through his skin. He didn't seem to be aware of that, always looked around in surprise instead once he saw all the glitter in the room. Unlike the starlight he could create in his palms, which he loved to do at night for Sherlock, he didn't do it intentionally.  
  
Sherlock didn't mind the mess. Cleaning up after a day spent with John was a small price to pay for the happiness and warmth he felt since he'd arrived.

 

"Why are you sad?"

Sherlock turned his head to look at John. He sat next to him, cross-legged, and watched him through his big eyes.

"I'm not sad," Sherlock told him and tilted his head. "Why do you think that? You're here with me. I'm okay."

John bit his lip as his glowing increased, shiny particles leaking from his skin.

"I don't mean right now. You were sad when you wanted me to come to you. Sometimes you still look sad. I know I can't make it all alright, but what is it that makes you so sad?"

He put his hands over Sherlock's clutched fists and rubbed them. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, surprised that John had paid so much attention, and answered, "You do make it alright. You're my friend, John."

John's glittering intensified and Sherlock smiled at the reaction.

"I'm sad because of the other kids," he then admitted, feeling his heart pound in his chest. He'd never told anyone. "They mock me. They don't like me because I'm different. I don't like them either." He crinkled his nose and looked down. "But I'm not mean about it. I'm just being honest. They don't understand. Everyone says I'm a freak for being too smart. And they call me names."

John was silent for a moment, then he put his hands firmly on Sherlock's shoulders. When he looked up, he saw a trail of starlight on the boy's face. It looked so beautiful. It almost made him not feel sorry that he'd made John cry. His whole body was buzzing with dust and glowing, he was clearly shaken.

"But Sherlock!" he called out and stopped for a brief moment, seemingly lost for words. His big eyes were filled with utter confusion and incomprehension. When he finally found his voice, he raised his hands to Sherlock's face.

"They're all wrong," he stated, completely certain. "They got it all wrong. What you can do with your brain is a gift. They just can't see it because they don't understand you. But you're just fine how you are! You're amazing, Sherlock, so amazing."

He pressed a firm kiss to his forehead and leaned his own against Sherlock's. "You can't believe what they tell you. It doesn't matter that they think wrong of you. We both know you're fine."

He gripped Sherlock's back and left glittery bits all over him. "They got it all wrong," he concluded and held on to the other boy. Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and closed his eyes. Maybe he was right, he thought. He didn't need the other children. He only needed John.

 

"Do you miss it?" Sherlock asked one night as they stood at the window and watched the sky.

"Miss what?"

"This." He pointed up. "Your family. Your home. It must be so different here. Do you not miss it?"

"I don't remember them," John explained quietly. "I don't remember what my home up there was like, either. But I don't need to. I don't miss my family, because I've got you now. You are my family. And my home is with you."

Sherlock looked at him from the corner of his eye and nodded briefly. He swallowed. John didn't expect him to say anything and he knew that Sherlock felt the same anyway.

They continued to watch the sky.

 

The first night Sherlock awoke to find the other side of the bed cold and empty, he felt his heart stutter in his chest. He sat up and let out a relieved breath when he found John before the window, letting the moonlight shine upon him, watching the sky in silence.

Sherlock was unsure whether he should say something, he didn't want to disturb him as he sat so still in the light. He remained silent for a bit, just looking at John, observing his every breath.

He remembered himself, not too long ago, standing at the same spot, trying to suppress his loneliness and wishing desperately for a companion. But John didn't look sad or lost. He looked content. At peace.

Sherlock decided to not talk to him and let him enjoy the silence. He went back to sleep not long after.

Every now and then he'd wake up to find John sitting at the window, sometimes with his eyes closed, as though he was absorbing the moonlight.  
  
One time, when the golden glow of his skin and the silvery light from the sky had united on John, Sherlock had let out a deep breath, barely audible in the silence of the night, yet loud enough for John to turn his head and look at him. Sherlock had felt caught, giving John a hesitant smile. The boy smiled back with all of his usual radiance. They both didn't speak, but it wasn't necessary. It only would have disturbed the moment.

 

"Why do you do this sometimes?" Sherlock asked John the next day, his curiosity winning the upper hand.

John looked up from his books and answered simply, "I like the moonlight."

Sherlock raised his brows. "It baths me," John elaborated with a smile. "Sitting in the light makes me feel clean, you know. I love the way it feels on my body. It's... soothing, somehow. I feel fresher afterwards. And it clears my mind."

"Fascinating," Sherlock mumbled. "You'll have to tell me more about that at some point."

John nodded, grinning about his enthusiasm, and Sherlock watched in silent adoration as golden sparks flew from his skin.

 

Sometimes Sherlock had nightmares. He hated to admit to having them, it was irrational to be so scared of something that wasn't real. But in the immediate aftermath of a bad dream it was no use telling himself that. He couldn't stop his heart from racing, and going back to sleep was impossible. With John starting to sleep next to him, the nightmares had become less frequent. But they didn't stop altogether.

The first time he awoke shaking and sweating, John looked at him with wide, scared eyes.

"Sherlock," he whispered and Sherlock realised that he had his hands on his shoulders. The warm, sparkly glow made him feel safer instantly.

"Sorry," he breathed out and wiped his hands over his face. "Nightmare. Go back to sleep."

But John moved closer to him under the blanket and wrapped his arms around him, rubbing his arm soothingly.

"Wanna tell me what it was about?" he whispered into his shoulder, where his head rested. Sherlock leaned into the touch.

"It's nothing," he said and shook his head. "It's stupid."

John just breathed in deeply and murmured, "Well, you can tell me anytime. I promise that I won't laugh."

He nodded and they both stayed silent, wrapped around each other, calming down again.

It wasn't until the next morning that Sherlock realised he'd actually fallen asleep again. He knew he had John to thank for that.

The next time he awoke from a bad dream, John had already shuffled closer, whispering reassuring words into his ear, glowing much brighter just to make him feel safe. Sherlock had never felt more safe in his entire life.

 

After years had passed since John's arrival on a late summer night, Sherlock finally approached a topic he'd wanted to ask John about for quite some time.

"You don't leave as much glitter around anymore," he started.

"Yeah, well, you've grown out of your old uniform."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow and John grinned while hovering over to him.

"Just stating the obvious," he said with a shrug. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Why is that?" he asked, not bothering to respond. "You used to spray glitter all over the place whenever you felt something. You still leave traces sometimes and you emit more when something emotional happens, but it's not nearly as much as it used to be."

"I think I just have more control over it," John mused. "I know these emotions now. They aren't so new and surprising anymore. I still feel them, of course. But I deal with them internally. Good for you, isn't it!" He grinned. "You don't have to clean as much anymore."

He giggled silently, knowing just too well how much Sherlock had enjoyed seeing him react so strongly. Sherlock watched him with narrowed eyes, and then, unexpectedly, pressed a kiss to John's cheek. He smirked, clearly pleased when John blushed and started eradiating a soft golden glow instantly. He stared at him so adorably startled that Sherlock just had to grin and put his arms around John's nape.

"It's good to know that I'm still capable of getting that out of you," he told him and then pressed a kiss to John's skin once more, a bit softer, just for the hell of it.


	3. Part II - Teenage Years

"John?" Sherlock threw his bag into a corner of his room and looked around.

"I'm here!"

He turned and saw John coming through the door that once belonged to Mycroft's room, which was now his. Mycroft had left for university not long ago, giving Sherlock and John more space and freedom to move around the house without being seen. His parents were hardly ever home, too occupied with their work, which had once made Sherlock sad but he now considered a blessing.

"Hello there, disaster." John grinned and let himself down on the bed. Sherlock slumped down next to him and closed his eyes briefly.

"How was it?" John asked after a moment of peaceful silence. Sherlock snorted. John raised his head and supported himself on his hand.

"Not good?" he asked compassionately. Sherlock pressed his palms against his head and let out a frustrated groan.

"Horrible. Absolutely tedious. They're all idiots! Every single one of them. Even the _teachers_ are unsurprisingly predictable and stupid."

"I'm sorry," John murmured and laid back down. "It's only for a few years," he tried to cheer him up. John always got sad as well when Sherlock was unhappy. He got mad at the people who made him feel that way for not seeing how special he was, for not  _understanding_ it.

"I know," Sherlock sighed and ruffled his hair. "I'd just much rather spend these years without them."

They both remained silent after that, knowing that more words wouldn't help the situation. John leaned his head against Sherlock's and rubbed his hands together. He laid his palms against the other boy's skin and let the soft glow flood into him. He knew how much Sherlock enjoyed it when he did that.

He wanted to give him a kiss, too, but he held himself back. They were both teenagers now, after all. He didn't feel any less connected to Sherlock than before, but he didn't know if Sherlock felt the same way – he desperately feared to overstep his boundaries.

He was, of course, very aware that Sherlock loved John just as much as he loved him. There'd never been any doubt about that. But he wasn't sure if his love was of the same nature that his was, now that they were older. He knew that the once so innocent kisses could start to feel like something different very quickly. He didn't want to push him or bring him to do anything he didn't want, so he held back and contented himself with more innocent touches. He would never try and get something out of Sherlock that he wasn't one hundred percent content giving. He would always and anytime just be exactly what Sherlock needed him to be.

So John remained the way he'd been, with his head leaning against Sherlock's and his hands on his skin. And the sight of Sherlock closing his eyes and relaxing visibly under his touch was more than enough.

 

It didn't take Sherlock long to realise that John held himself back. He'd noticed the lack of small kisses against his cheek or his forehead some time ago, but had brushed it off, thinking that John may have needed some space. Space he was very willing to give him, anything to make him happy.

But then he'd started observing mixed signs. John didn't look at him with any less affection than before, on the contrary – it seemed to grow stronger all the time. He didn't stop touching him, either. Whenever he seemed to think it was adequate, he put his hands somewhere on Sherlock. Or leaned his head against his. Or wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist. So why was he holding back?

Sherlock had always enjoyed the little pecks John gave him, the brush of his warm lips on his skin. He also admitted to having recently started to think about what it would feel like if those lips were to meet his, all the affection directed towards the one spot on Sherlock's body with the most nerves, transferred only through his soft mouth.

But why did John stop? Did he, just maybe, feel the same way Sherlock did? Was he trying to give Sherlock his space while desperately aching for more closeness, too? He had to investigate as soon as possible.

 

"John? Can you come here for a moment?" John turned around and hovered to Sherlock, who was sitting on his bed. He pointed to the space next to him. "Sit down," he said. John sat and watched him curiously.

"What is it?"

"Today's your birthday, John."

Sherlock bit his lip to cover his smile as John raised his eyebrows and the realisation hit him.

"You're right," he said, smiling at his own inattention. Sherlock and John had established the annual anniversary of the day he'd fallen from the sky as his birthday. They didn't count his age, as he hadn't been an infant when they'd met, but rather their years together.

"So, do you have a present for me?" he asked half-jokingly, smirking.

Sherlock leaned in a bit closer and said in a lower voice, "I do."

John's heart stammered and then continued to beat just a tiny bit faster. Sherlock smiled and grabbed something from behind him. It was a small bottle, unwrapped. He gave it to John with a sparkle in his eyes. John took it and looked at it. He let out a squeak when he realised what it was.

"You got me nail varnish!" He looked at the golden glitter inside with awe.

"I figured you might like it, since you looked at that girl's nails on the telly last week like you wanted to paint your whole body in the colour," he explained.

"That's so amazing! Thank you, Sherlock. That's the best present I've ever gotten."

"That's because it's the _only_ present you've ever gotten," Sherlock countered. "But you're wrong"

"What?"

"That was not your present."

He leaned closer to the boy and suddenly John's focus shifted entirely on him.

" _This_ is." He smiled and pressed a soft, chaste kiss right to the corner of his mouth. He could see the sudden glow from John's skin through his closed eyelids and felt his heart beat faster. He had missed this, he realised. It was so much better than he remembered. Likely because his feelings towards the boy had evolved to something bigger over time, something different.

He made himself stop thinking and just enjoy the moment, the brief touch. He remained with his lips on John's skin for another second, then drew back slowly and hovered near his face for a moment, ending the touch with the invitation for more and the possibility of letting it go like that at the same time.

"Happy Birthday, John," he breathed out and smiled at the sight of his startled expression. Then he got up and gave him time to let his heartbeat recover.

 

"Oh my god, Sherlock! What _happened_?"

John's voice was shrill with worry. Sherlock closed his eyes for a second before he straightened up, wanting to look strong and indifferent.

"Don't throw a fit, John. I'm quite alright." He threw his jacket into the corner before settling on his bed. "It was merely a disagreement with the others."

John was next to him in a second, reaching out for Sherlock's body without touching him.

"What others?" he demanded to know and Sherlock almost flinched at the pain in his expression.

"From school," he said muffled and wished desperately for this conversation to be over. It was bad enough that he was hurting. He didn't want John in pain as well.

"Sherlock Holmes, you tell me right now who did this and why, do you hear me!"

Sherlock sighed. "It was some of my classmates, John. Apparently calling me names isn't enough anymore, so they went on to giving me physical souvenirs."

He didn't want to talk about it anymore, but he knew John wouldn't rest until he'd heard the reason. He most certainly suspected it anyway.

"Why?" was the only word he managed.

"Because I don't date girls. Because I don't look at them the same predatory way they do. Because they think I'm gay and they're homophobic arseholes with no tolerance or respect for anything other than their idiotic selves." He spat out the last part and resisted the urge to cover his face with his hands. He remained still and looked down on his duvet. Sherlock could feel the bruises form under his skin while he waited for John to say something.

The small touch on his face caught him off guard. His head snapped up as he looked at him.

John glowed. He held his face softly between his hands and watched Sherlock's reaction. He could feel the starlight brushing over his skin, leaking into his body, and he put his hands around John's wrists to keep them in place. John came closer to his face and Sherlock saw the tears welling in his eyes. He felt sorry. He hadn't meant to make John cry. He'd always been so vulnerable when it came to Sherlock.

John leaned in all the way and placed a kiss on the bruise covering Sherlock's cheekbone. He ran his thumb over it and kissed it again, until Sherlock noticed with wonder that it had stopped hurting. He then proceeded to to the same on the other side of his face, on his jaw, over his eye and finally on his collarbones and chest.

Sherlock didn't move at all. He watched John silently, his mouth open, completely awestruck as he continued to cover him with soft marks of affection where the hard traces of hatred had been left before. Sherlock found himself completely lost in the intimacy of the act.

It wasn't just that this was John and he was planting kisses all over his sensitive body – well, not only. It was the fact that he had taken the pain away with his touches. When John had placed a final kiss on Sherlock's skin and sat up, trails of golden light on his face, they watched each other in silence for a moment.

"I didn't know you could do that," Sherlock breathed out at last and touched John's hand. The boy was still glowing strongly. He intertwined their fingers and held on to him.

"Anything for you," John said quietly, and the power behind those simple words threatened to overwhelm him. "You know they are wrong, right? Do you know that, Sherlock?"

"I do," he nodded reassuringly and breathed in deeply. "I do, John."

 

Sherlock decided that it was time to do something.

He was certain that both he and John wanted the same thing, and still John hadn't approached Sherlock in any different way. He'd given him all these pecks that one time he'd gotten beaten up by his classmates and after that placed them on various spots of Sherlock's skin, but never to his lips. He'd never kissed Sherlock's mouth and the longing made him furious, left him mad and yearning for his touch.

So he'd do it, Sherlock decided. _He_ 'd kiss John. If John was incapable of taking a hint then he would just have to risk it.

He was, however, unsure as to when he should approach said kiss.

Should he wait for the 'right' moment? Whenever that was. Should he tell him before? _John, I'm going to kiss you now. Is that alright with you?_ Maybe that was for the best. Or should he just go for it, press his lips against John's and see how he'd react?

But what if he had, in fact, misinterpreted the signs all that time and- nonsense. Impossible. Highly unlikely, at least. He would do it, that much was certain. And if he really had been wrong – and he wasn't, ever – then he'd tell John that he didn't mind going back to just being friends.

John wouldn't have to know that he actually did mind and he would stay and things would be fine. So, it was settled. He would kiss John. Now he only needed to figure out how.

 

Sherlock and John were sitting on the bed, both reading. Well, John was reading. Sherlock was hiding his face behind a book, trying to calm himself. He couldn't wait any longer. He'd kiss John now. Right now. This second.

He suppressed the urge to throw his book out of the window and push John back to crawl on top of him and kiss him senseless. Instead, he closed the book firmly and put it aside a bit harder than necessary. John didn't even look up. Sherlock tried to calm his breathing and cleared his throat. As John was still lost in his book, he grew impatient and snapped it out of his hands.

"He-" John started, but in a moment of recklessness Sherlock had already gotten on his knees and leaned in, his face hovering close to John's. Closer than usually adequate. John fell silent and watched him with wide eyes.

"John," Sherlock almost purred and came even closer. Their noses touched.

"Sherlock," John tried to answer casually, but it came out as a mere breath. Sherlock felt the warmth on his lips. He smiled as his heart started to beat faster in his chest.

"John, I-"

"Yes," he interrupted and licked his lips.

Sherlock raised his gaze from John's mouth to his eyes and asked, "You mean-"

"Yes," John cut him off again and watched him expectantly.

"I'm going to-"

"Go on. Do it."

They both remained still for a heartbeat, then Sherlock's lips crushed onto John's and his pulse elevated to an alarming rate as he mirrored his motions immediately. John put his arms around Sherlock's nape and pulled him closer. Sherlock's eyes were shut so he didn't see, but he could feel the warm glow leaking from John's skin.  
  
Sherlock's whole mind, the entirety of his thinking narrowed down to this single spot, the contact between his and John's lips. He didn't think about anything else, only the warm touch of John, John, _John_. He was kissing John. John was kissing him back. He held a star in his arms, but what he felt was the whole universe against his lips. If Sherlock felt like this, then he imagined that John looked like a supernova.

They kept kissing, trying to catch their breath while not letting go of the other. John's lips shyly parted and Sherlock happily followed the invitation. His tongue slid across the inside of John's lip and the sound that escaped the other boy's mouth at that movement made him groan in return.

He nudged the top of John's tongue with his own and drew in a sharp breath as John began to circle around the muscle. John seemed to become more confident and started sucking Sherlock's lip.

They both moved closer to the other one, their bodies pressed against each other with no space between them. Somehow they must have layed down, because John suddenly rolled around and sat on top of him, never leaving his lips. When Sherlock felt himself getting dizzy and John's breathing had become slightly too irregular to be healthy, they finally broke apart.

Sherlock opened his eyes breathlessly. He turned his gaze immediately on John, who watched him starstruck.

Sherlock had been right. He looked like a supernova. The starlight leaked from all the skin of his body and he was covered in stardust. Everything was glittery and everything was so, so incredible that it hurt him to breath. Still sitting on top of him, John covered his mouth – his swollen mouth, as Sherlock noticed with satisfaction - and started giggling.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, still feeling his heart pound heavily in his chest.

John rolled off him and layed down next to him, still laughing. When he finally caught his breath, he exclaimed, "You look like a bloody _Christmas tree_."

Sherlock sat up. "What?"

John took his hand and pulled him off the bed. Looking into the mirror, Sherlock realised what he'd meant. He was completely covered in glitter and stardust - and when he said completely, he meant that there wasn't a spot on his body he could find that wasn't sparkling. His mouth dropped slightly. John stood next to him, still looking as flushed as Sherlock did underneath the sparkly bits, with a wide smile on his face, bright light shining from his skin and no shame to be found anywhere.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, stunned, and shook his head. Tiny glowing particles flew out of his dark curls.

"I think I got a little overenthusiastic." John snorted and hovered a bit over the ground so his eyes were on the same height as Sherlock's. "That was nice," he then whispered and wrapped his arms around his waist. Sherlock willingly opened his arms. "We should do it again."

"So you liked it, too?" Sherlock smirked at the understatement and pressed John tightly to his body. It wasn't close enough. It never was.

"I loved it so much that I accidently showered you in stardust, remember?" John murmured and rested his forehead against his shoulder. "So yes, we should totally do this again."

Sherlock dragged him back to the bed in an instant with a spark in his eyes, mumbling, "Well, the mess is already made. Might as well make the most of it, don't you think?"

John chuckled lowly. "You're right," he agreed. "Might as well."

 

They took their time. It was like getting to know each other all over again, just on an entirely different base.

John took exceptionally long to not get so excited over kisses that he accidently showered Sherlock in glittery dust anymore. Not that Sherlock minded. He loved that John just wasn't able to contain himself, solely because of him.

He loved that they moved on slowly, really savouring every step on their journey to discovering the other's body. He normally despised repetition, but found that he didn't mind at all when it came to experiencing things with John. They cuddled a lot. Sherlock had never thought himself to be of the cuddly type, but there he was, curled up against John every day, enjoying the warmth and touch of the his body.

When they had sex for the first time, Sherlock thought that he'd been transferred to heaven somehow. It was most certainly not perfect, it involved a lot of giggling and awkward blushing (also various sparkling body parts, which Sherlock _loved_ ) but they got the hang of it soon and once they'd made out what the other enjoyed and what not, it easily became the most amazing thing they'd done together.

John loved watching Sherlock come. He'd close his eyes every time and grip John even tighter, calling out his name. Always his name. It was enough to drive John over the edge, too.

Sherlock, in return, could never get enough of the sight of John climaxing either. In the moment of release, John was radiant. Sherlock thought that he probably didn't realise just how bright he shone, being that caught up in the feeling.

Afterwards, they laid on the bed together, wrapped around each other, dozing off. The sparkling splashes of John's release were still evident on Sherlock's naked skin. He didn't mind at all.

He didn't think he'd ever get enough of this. Luckily, neither did John.

 

In the silence of the night, they held onto each other like the darkness was the raging sea and the other one a safe island.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" It was a mere whisper, made loud with significance.

"I love you."

A brief moment of stillness, then a brush of lips on his forehead. Tight arms around him.

"I love you, too."

Two equal heartbeats. Synchronized breathing. Another whisper.

"Don't leave me."

"Never."


	4. Part III - Adulthood

The first morning in Baker Street felt like waking up in a new world. John awoke first, snuggled closely to Sherlock even though they had more than enough space in their double bed now. Old habit, he supposed.

He looked around the unfamiliar room and couldn't quite believe that the two of them were actually there. He wouldn't have to hide in Sherlock's bedroom anymore. He could move without fearing someone might see or hear him.

He looked at the sleeping man next to him. A dark curl had fallen on his forehead. John brushed it back softly and then got up to have a wash and make breakfast. He didn't have to eat, but he liked to do it as it seemed to animate Sherlock to do the same.

He took everything about the new flat in, thinking how lucky they'd been that Sherlock had ensured their landlady Mrs. Hudson's husband's execution. Otherwise they could never have afforded the place.

He hovered around the kitchen, preparing breakfast. Everything was still so new; it didn't feel like home yet. He had a feeling that it wouldn't take long, though. Once he'd actually see Sherlock buzzing around the flat, capturing every spot, once they'd start making memories here, he had no doubt it would become home to them soon enough.

He yawned and went back to the bedroom to wake Sherlock up. He crawled into their bed and started running his hand up and down Sherlock's arm lazily. Once again it hit him just how much they'd both grown. Laying next to him was a fully grown man, just as he himself had become one. He thought back to when he and Sherlock had met, just how small they'd been. He chuckled softly and Sherlock began to move under his touch. When he finally opened his eyes and focused on him, John leaned in to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

"Good morning, disaster."

Sherlock turned under the blanket and rubbed his eyes.

"John," he mumbled and blinked sleepily. He yawned and turned his gaze on John's face, entirely awake now. "Good morning," he replied and sat up. "Bathroom," he mumbled. "Be right back. You stay exactly where you are."

John nodded and closed his eyes while he waited for him to come back. When Sherlock returned, he slipped back under the duvet and wrapped his limbs around John's body. Sherlock was always so cuddly in the mornings. Sometimes in the afternoon or late at night, too. John wrapped his arms around him in response and inhaled his scent deeply.

"Breakfast is ready," he murmured softly and grinned at the approving humming from Sherlock's throat. "Come on, we should get up properly. Time to make some memories, inaugurate this place."

Sherlock chuckled lowly and buried his face into the curve of his neck. "I can think of another way to do that," he suggested and left small bites on John's skin, letting out pleased noises as John gasped and started to glow in response.

When they finally left the bedroom, the tea needed to be boiled again.

 

It was with mixed feelings that Sherlock watched John's glow wear off almost completely.

He still emitted large amounts of stardust and started to shine when he felt a sudden or exceptional emotion – and Sherlock _so_ loved to get that response out of him – but he'd been on earth long enough now that he'd mostly gained control over his feelings. He was still capable of emitting light and dust at wish, creating starlight in his palms if he wanted to, but the unconscious reactions to the world around him weren't there for Sherlock to see anymore.

Still, there were some positive aspects to that as well. John could now go out into the world without everyone staring at him and pointing fingers. When people noticed the subtle glow that emitted from his skin, they didn't think too much about it. Sherlock was happy that John didn't need to be a prisoner in his own house anymore. He was delighted to take him anywhere and show him the outside world.

John's first day out in London would always be one of Sherlock's favourite memories. He'd saved every minor detail about John's reaction, joy and utter amazement in his mind, with no intention of ever letting them go.

John had looked at the city around him in awe, just as Sherlock had quietly looked at him. When he'd casually put his hand into John's after a while and just continued walking, he'd felt the vibrant buzzing from him.

"Stay on the ground, John," he'd reminded him softly, secretly pleased that the simple touch meant as much to his partner as it did to him.

And when he'd kissed him in front of Big Ben that night, for the first time ever showing the world that this man was his, his John, he'd flung his arms around his nape in return and kissed him back with such intensity that they'd quickly called it a day and taken a cab home. Yes, Sherlock was fairly certain that he'd never forget a thing about that day.

 

Lestrade seemed to notice something was different about John. The Detective Inspector, which Sherlock had met in his late teens and impressed to the point where he'd granted him access to Scotland Yard's cases, was actually of the brighter kind. Not that he'd ever tell him.

Sherlock had noticed the first time he'd dragged John along to a crime scene. Lestrade had shaken his hand and looked at him just a moment longer than necessary. But he hadn't seemed to be able to put his finger on what had caught his attention, so he'd merely frowned and turned his eyes back to the body.

During a ridiculously long and hard case, Sherlock and John spent their days and nights at Scotland Yard, looking at files and photographs, trying to make connections where there were none. They'd been working for hours straight in the same room. Lestrade was out of his depth and close to a breakdown, none of them had gotten any sleep in days. Sherlock was leaning over some documents, reading rapidly.

When he returned from refilling his coffee with a sigh, seeing Sherlock and John over at the table, his jaw dropped. He blinked twice and rubbed his eyes in disbelief. What he saw was Sherlock, still leaning over the files, and John, hovering behind him, looking down at the same papers.

Literally hovering.

Sherlock realised quickly Lestrade had frozen at the door. He snapped his head up and regarded the DI, who was staring at something behind him.

"Lestrade," he called his name and watched him snap out of his stillness. "What is it?"

"I... you..." Giving up, he walked back to his chair, sat down and burrowed his face in his hands.

Sherlock frowned and turned to look at John, which was the exact moment he realised what was going on. A smile sneaked on his face as he gently put his hands on John's shoulders. John looked at him with raised eyebrows, then seemed to realise what he'd been doing.

"Down, John," Sherlock whispered and brushed his lips softly against his cheek. John chuckled lowly.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"He was hovering," Lestrade reported miserably from the end of the table, face still hidden in his palms. "I just saw John hovering in the air. I think I lost it, folks."

"Don't be silly, Lestrade," Sherlock answered. "You're merely lacking a fair amount of sleep. You are, however, of no use to the case in this state. Do us all a favour and go home. We'll be fine without you for a few hours."

For once, he was thankful for the DI's lack of observation. He'd believe anything Sherlock said if he just made it sound fairly plausible.

"You're right," Lestrade sighed in defeat and got up. "I'll be back in a few hours. Try to make some progress while I'm gone," he said, already halfway out the door. Left alone in the office, John and Sherlock had already started laughing silently.

 

Months later, when John's presence at crime scenes had long become something nobody questioned anymore, Sherlock solved an exceptionally clever case - solely because of a comment John had made, which had caused a string of thoughts that'd connected all the lose ends and revealed the picture as a whole within seconds.

He turned on the spot and grabbed John ecstatically, kissing him without any ado. John parted his lips automatically, tangling his fingers into Sherlock's soft curls, holding onto the unexpected touch for dear life. They had a good snog next to the corpse until Sherlock stepped back, flailing his arms around as he called Lestrade's name and rushed off towards him to show off his deductions, leaving a breathless John behind.

When he'd wrapped up his explanations he left it to a baffled Lestrade to go back to the corpse and confirm his undoubtedly correct theory. Sherlock turned to John, their hands slipping into one another naturally.

John licked his lips as Sherlock squeezed tightly with the promise of more once they'd get home. Already turning their back on the crime scene, they didn't see what happened, but heard Lestrade's sudden outburst just too clearly. " _Who in_ god's name _spilled a bloody pile of glitter on my crime scene?!"_

They shot each other a quick look, John's face the definition of shock, and then started giggling hysterically. Walking faster, John mumbled, "We can't giggle. It's a crime scene!"

Sherlock snorted and squeezed John's fingers between his, delighted at the high running through his body.

"You mean the crime scene we just made out at and then compromised through said act? I think we've done things far worse than _giggling_ today, John."

They both failed to contain themselves as they made their way through the streets, hoping to find a cab that'd take them home as fast as possible.

 

The first time Sherlock had played the violin at 221b, he'd chosen a piece he'd never shown to John before. John had been in the kitchen, making tea, when he'd heard the first few notes. He'd left his cup on the table and had walked into the living room, looking at Sherlock with his mouth slightly open.

Sherlock had noticed that his body had begun to glow, without him realising. He'd watched as the man had closed his eyes and started hovering over the ground, swaying in time with the music. As the piece had continued and built more and more, he'd sprayed glitter everywhere, leaving trails of dust and starlight behind him as he'd lost himself completely in the music.

Sherlock had let his heart and soul flow into the piece and given everything for John, until the last note had fallen silent. John'd been still in the air for a moment, just looking at Sherlock as he'd looked at him. Then he'd approached the tall man and kissed his cheek, wiping his eyes.

"That was incredible," he'd whispered and Sherlock had felt something warm and golden flood through his veins.

"I wrote it for you," he'd admitted and smiled as John had looked at him with his mouth open and then flung himself around him.

"Thank you," he'd murmured into his shoulder. "Thank you, thank you, thank you." He'd sent a trail of kisses down Sherlock's collarbone and rested his forehead on his body. "Never stop playing this song for me, Sherlock," he'd sighed and put his arms around his waist. "Never, ever stop."

So Sherlock didn't. Ten years after they'd moved into Baker Street he still loved to wake John on lazy mornings with the melody. When John wasn't feeling well he played through the night, his composition on repeat.

He'd imagined the effect of the song on John would wear off with time, but he'd been wrong. He still lit up like the sun whenever Sherlock played it. He couldn't get enough of the sight. So he kept playing the song, just like he'd asked him to.

 

The time Sherlock got himself shot during a case was the most stressful period of John's life.

It had been a nasty case with an even nastier criminal and sheer, dumb luck that the shot had missed Sherlock's heart. John kept getting nightmares about that day, about the shooter not missing his aim and Sherlock dying under his hands. He'd felt so incredibly terrified and cold when he'd seen the body of his partner lying on the ground, blood coming out of the bullet wound. He'd tried to heal him, but the injury was too big, he didn't have the power to help with this.

John had never felt so useless before. He waited for the ambulance in shock and spent three days in a chair at Sherlock's bedside, waiting for him to wake up, constantly running his hands over the pale body, letting the soft glow flow into him at every accessible spot.

He held his hands and whispered sweet promises against his skin, cried on his shoulder, begged him to wake up. He lit up like the sun when Sherlock finally opened his eyes, recognizing him on the spot.

"John," he croaked, blinking rapidly in confusion, moving his fingers to reach out to him. "John." He smiled and sighed, then he fell unconscious again.

Hours later he awoke, this time for good. The doctors came in to run all kinds of tests. When they were finally left alone, Sherlock reached for John's hand, desperate for his touch.

John felt the stress of the last few days roll over him. He wanted to sob and lie on Sherlock's chest to feel his heartbeat, feel it as proof that he was actually alive and well, he wanted to hit him for being such a bloody idiot and getting himself shot, wanted to kiss him until the heart monitor went nuts, but he did none of that. Instead, he pressed Sherlock's hand against his lips and kissed it softly, again and again, letting his light flood into him where their bodies met.

"Don't do this to me again," he mumbled like a mantra, over and over. "Don't ever do this to me again, you hear me, Sherlock? I can't lose you. I can't lose you."

Sherlock looked heartbroken at the sound of John's voice. He nodded and whispered back, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You won't, I promise, you won't."

They spent the night holding onto each other, whispering vows and sweet nothings until Sherlock fell asleep from exhaustion.

John never left his bedside while he stayed in the hospital. Mrs. Hudson stopped by every day, bringing fresh clothes and checking in on her tenants. Sherlock wouldn't admit it, but he secretly enjoyed her visits. Lestrade came to visit as well, bringing him a pile of cold cases to fight the boredom. Even Mycroft stopped by to see how his brother was doing, not that he couldn't have checked his records from home. John appreciated the gesture, Sherlock not so much.

In the end, they were both deliriously happy when John could finally take Sherlock home. And Sherlock promised himself as well as John once more to never let something like that happen again.

 

"I've never thanked you, John."

"For what?"

"For staying with me. Loving me. Making my life a good one. I have never... I can never tell you just how thankful I am for the privilege of having you in my life."

"It's my pleasure, Sherlock. No, don't look at me like that. I'm not some kind of price that you've won without deserving it. I could say the exact same thing to you. You are everything to me. You know that, right?"

"And so are you to me. You are _everything_ , John. Everything."

 

And just like that, between all the kisses and cases from Scotland Yard, between moving into Baker Street and getting shot, playing the violin and enjoying lazy mornings, against all odds, they grew old. Life passed by and Sherlock and John tried to keep up desperately. But one morning, they awoke in their bedroom and listened silently to the sound of the rain outside, and they'd grown old.

"John, I think we should move to the country soon."

John rolled on his side and faced him with a smile on his lips. Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, which had turned silver over the years.

"That's a splendid idea, love," John nodded and closed his eyes at the touch of Sherlock's fingers.

"How do you feel about Sussex?"

"I love it," John smiled at the image of them in a small house, retiring together, living one day at a time. "You could start keeping bees," he mused.

Sherlock hummed happily at the suggestion and brushed his fingers over John's cheek. "That I could do," he endorsed.


	5. Epilogue - The End

It was almost time, but it had been prepared for.

A beautiful, golden autumn had passed in Sussex. Sherlock and John had spent their sixth year in the small cottage, John writing down his memoirs and Sherlock occupying himself with keeping bees.

They'd both been aware it was going towards Sherlock's end. They'd talked about it briefly, but there wasn't much to say.

One morning in late October, the wind blew strongly outside, Sherlock woke up and knew that he wouldn't get out of bed that day. John was still asleep next to him, his chest heaving and sinking evenly. Sherlock didn't deny himself the pleasure of drinking in every detail about John that he could make out.

When John opened his eyes and looked at him silently, Sherlock saw in his eyes that he must have felt it. He'd always been so sensible, his John.

"John," he muttered saying so many things through that one word. John took his hand and pressed it to his heart, murmuring, "It's all fine, Sherlock. I'm here. You're okay."

He smiled lugubriously. His mind was suddenly flushed with memories, back from the very beginning and all the way through their life.

 

"What are you going to do when I'm gone?" Sherlock had wanted to know one evening not too long ago, as they'd sat outside and watched the sunset.

"Don't you worry about me," John had replied softly and brushed his fingers over Sherlock's hand, visibly nerved nowadays. "I'm half a star, remember? I can go back to where I came from. I'll return to the sky and be a star again. And I'll keep this life" – he pressed his hand to his chest – "every second of it in my heart. I'll be fine, Sherlock."

Sherlock had squeezed his hand and seemed reassured. "I'll be fine, too. We'll be both alright, John."

And they would be.

 

"Come closer, John," Sherlock asked with a faint smile and John snuggled as close as he was able to. They could feel each other's breath on their skin.

They stayed like that the whole morning, feeling the need to touch over and over again, to make the most of it.

Sherlock remembered many things of his life, thinking of the big events in his life and surprisingly random details, telling John his favourite ones, recounting all the stories they'd lived through together once more.

John told him about his favourite memories too. They shared their thoughts, tender kisses and peaceful silence with each other. When the afternoon passed, Sherlock became quieter by the minute.

John saw in the wrinkles on his face and his tired eyes that it wouldn't take long now. He took in a shaky breath, forcing himself not to lose it just yet, and put his hands around Sherlock's face. The man's eyes focused on him and he smiled, his expression so loving that John thought it could tear him apart, if he let it.

"Why don't you rest a little, Sherlock?" he asked in a steady voice and rubbed his thumbs over the sharp cheekbones. "I'll be here with you. It's alright."

Sherlock watched him silently and laid his hand over John's. He didn't seem to want to look away, despite the tiredness in his eyes.

"Don't fight it, love," John murmured and he knew that he was shining, glowing next to him. The grief was threatening to overwhelm him. "It's all fine."

He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead, breathing in the scent one final time. Then he focused on his palms.

He watched as Sherlock's expression shifted when he felt the glow on his skin, felt it seep through his body. It seemed to take away any thought that'd held him back before. When he whispered a quiet, "I love you, John. Always have loved you. From the very first moment," he looked utterly at peace.

Then his eyes shut and his breath evened out.

John let out a ragged whimper and stopped fighting the tears.

He continued to make starlight in his palms, kept letting it flow into him while he still breathed. He didn't stop when he wasn't anymore.

He lay next to his body, not breaking the contact with his skin, yet terrified of the moment he'd feel it become cold. He buried his face into Sherlock's shoulder and tried to control the new feeling, the terrifyingly huge and overwhelming grief.

Which was why it took him a while to realise that Sherlock, in fact, did not get cold. On the contrary.

When he looked up to see what was happening, he gasped. The body he'd been mourning was glowing. Sherlock's skin was covered in shining light completely, he was emitting particles of golden dust and he felt warmer than before. John's jaw dropped and he watched in awe as the glow became brighter and brighter. When Sherlock unexpectedly inhaled deeply and opened his eyes, John almost fell off the bed.

"Oh my goodness," he managed to say. Sherlock's eyes focused on him as he said in the voice he'd never expected to hear again, "John."

"Sherlock," John choked out, grabbing his hand and holding it tightly. "Oh my god, Sherlock. You're alive. You're alive!"

Sherlock's eyes caught on his own skin as he sat up and stared at his body in wonder. "I am a star," he drew the only possible explanation and looked at John with his mouth open. "John, you made me a star."

They both stared at his glowing skin and let out a quiet _oh_ as he rubbed his hands together and little lakes of starlight formed in his palms.

"I didn't know this was possible," John breathed out. A moment passed where they both just drank each other in, dwelling on the wonder that they were able to do so.

"Neither did I," Sherlock responded breathlessly. "Not that I mind, though. At all," he added. Their eyes met briefly. And the next moment they were clinging onto each other, kissing like their lives depended on it, grabbing the other's hair, breathing into the others mouth.

"I love you," they whispered at the same moment and then giggled like teenagers.

"What happens now?" Sherlock asked, still eyeing his glowing skin curiously.

"We have everything ahead of us," John said, and the thought made for a tingling sensation in his stomach.

He took Sherlock's hands and pulled him up, pointing at the window. "We could stay here. Or we could go there." He waved at the sky. "We could do both. There's nothing holding us back. We can do so much, Sherlock."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and held him tightly. They stood in the middle of the room for a long time, just hugging, until Sherlock whispered in his ear, "I can't wait."

And together they turned to look at the sky, with their hands firmly intertwined and a smile on their lips, with all the world at their fingertips and a hundred lifetimes ahead to make the most of it.


End file.
